The Last Roman: Book One: Exile

by B. K. Greenwood

  Tullus echoed the sentiment of the others. "Don't worry, Marcus, we'll teach these fucking bastards a lesson in warfare."

  "I'm sure you will. May the Gods be with us."

  The yellow orb that promised to be the morning sun slowly devoured the heavy fog, and it revealed the faint outlines of the surrounding forest. To the left lay a stream, its sparkling current hidden beneath a mass of reeds that clung to the steep embankment. It emerged from the trees near a boulder in a far corner of the field, meandering toward their camp before cutting back and disappearing into the dense foliage.

  The ground was clear for the thirty yards that led up to the fortifications behind them. In front, the wildflowers and golden grass swayed in the morning breeze, a peaceful setting that was a stark contrast to the impending slaughter. A dark forest loomed in the distance, concealing the enemy who was sure to be watching them as well. Fields like this were uncommon in Gaul, and it surprised Marcus the barbarians had agreed to meet them on such favorable ground.

  From his jittery steed, Marcus watched the centurions organize the cohorts. They adjusted the spacing between the rows and columns, ensuring each man was three feet from his companion in all directions. This spacing allowed each man ample room to maneuver while still providing support to his neighbor. He swiveled in his saddle to check the status of their auxiliaries.

  The cavalry troop was stationed near the end of the formation. The troopers, like their commander Octavius, waited for the battle to begin. Archers, deployed behind the legion, performed last-minute checks on their equipment. Each bowman had stuck an allotment of arrows into the soft ground before him, allowing for easy access once the battle had begun. Beyond the archers and within the palisade walls, Marcus could see the various crews working to prepare the war machines.

  A murmur from the nearby troops interrupted his inspection. Marcus sat up in his saddle and peered toward the distant tree line, where a group of shadowy figures had emerged from the woods.

  The Suebi were huge; even the average barbarian towered above most Romans. Their extraordinary stature was matched only by their tenacity in battle. And they did not take well to subjugation.

  A smile crept across his lips; if Marcus was fighting for his freedom, he wouldn't give up either.

  The mob of warriors moved from the safety of the woods and began their trek across the open field, pale sunlight glittering off their shields and weapons. One command from the centurions prompted the men to ready their javelin. From behind, Marcus heard the archer's commander order his men to notch their missiles. He dismounted and handed the reins to the young boy that had followed from the camp. Marcus drew his sword as he stepped toward the line, but Gaius grabbed his wrist and frowned.

  "I don't think you'll be needing that." He spat on the ground. "And if you do, then we're fucked."

  Without waiting for a reply, the centurion moved off to reposition a young soldier who had strayed out of line. Marcus grinned, slid his sword back into its sheath, and watched the enemy advance. The barbarians were scattered across the field, but not as many as he had expected. A nagging feeling crept over him, but it vanished with the sudden appearance of enemy cavalry. Marcus turned in time to see the Roman cavalry commander, Octavius, waving his sword above his head and leading his troops forward. The two groups met forty yards from the line, crashing together in a tangle of man and horse. A Roman cavalryman slew their leader, and soon, the Suebi warriors were galloping for the safety of the distant woods. Caught up in the heat of battle, the victorious horsemen followed hot on their heels. The legionnaires thrust their swords into the air as they cheered the victors.

  "Not too far, Octavius."

  The whisper escaped his lips as Marcus watched their cavalry disappear into the trees. He shook his head and shifted his attention back to the field where the enemy infantry had advanced to within a hundred paces of their line. They were now close enough to distinguish the fearsome war paint that covered their upper bodies.

  A series of muffled thumps signaled the catapults had joined the day. Goat-sized boulders sailed through the air, smashing into their loose formations. Groups of men disappeared as the stones tumbled across the meadow, leaving clouds of bloody mist in their wake. The ballistae were next to join the fight. These machines launched giant darts that sliced through flesh and bone, often pinning their unfortunate victims to the ground. One such missile skewered two men, who struggled to free themselves from the thick wooden shaft.

  The Suebi pressed on, knowing the barrage would ease if they could get close enough to the Roman line. But the carnage had just begun. Marcus heard the order, followed by the twang, as hundreds of archers released their bows in unison. The arrows streaked overhead, raining down among the advancing men as they hunkered beneath round wooden shields. Shrieks of dying men punctuated the air as the lethal missiles repeatedly found their targets.

  Still, they advanced. The hair on the back of Marcus's neck stood up as the barbarians let out a blood-curdling scream and closed the distance between the lines. On the centurion's command, the front ranks of soldiers launched their pilums toward the advancing enemy. Hurled with deadly accuracy, the six-foot javelins pierced through shield, flesh, and bone. Finally, the Romans unsheathed their swords and met the exhausted attackers. Marcus realized the initial attack would fail and looked across the bloody field to the woods beyond.

  Where was the second wave? He peered toward the distant woods to see if Octavius had returned, but saw no sign of the cavalrymen. Marcus ran toward Gaius, who was urging the men forward.

  "Gaius, order a halt!"

  "Sir? We've broken the bastards!"

  "Did we? You think that was the main attack?"

  "You're right." He shook his head. "I'll try to hold 'em back, but it won't be easy."

  Just as he finished speaking, the attackers spun around and ran—many of the Romans in steady pursuit.

  "Order the stand down!" Gaius called to the drummer as he rushed toward the nearest soldiers. "Get in line!"

  "We're not peasants—we're legionnaires!" Another centurion grabbed a nearby trooper and thrust him back toward the formation. "You'll get back in line, or I'll cane each one of your lousy hides!"

  Confident that the veterans would halt the advance, Marcus scanned the dense forest across the field. Turning to the left, he looked beyond the stream, focusing on the pasture. The grass moved in a circular motion, not back and forth as one would expect from the slight breeze. Then it dawned on Marcus what was happening.

  "Gaius!" Marcus peered into the mass of soldiers. "Gaius!"

  Marcus spun around and frantically motioned for his horse just as the centurion appeared by his side.

  "The boys are reforming," Gaius panted.

  "Good." Marcus pointed to the formation. "Find as many centurions as you can—quickly!"

  Years of taking orders had set the habit, and Gaius sprinted away as Marcus turned toward the boy who held his horse.

  "Can you ride?"

  "Yes, sir! Very well."

  "Good." He lifted him into the saddle. "Do something for me; it's very important."

  "Will I be a legionnaire?"

  "What?" Marcus grinned, despite the dire circumstances. "Of course! But you must find the general. He'll be surrounded by a lot of men on horses. I need you to say these exact words: 'Marcus says the left flank is under attack.' Do you understand?"

  The boy nodded.

  "Repeat it to me."

  "Marcus says the left flank is under attack." He trembled with excitement or fear, probably both. "You can trust me."

  "I don't have any other choice." Marcus slapped the rump of the horse, and it bolted toward the center of the line.

  When he turned back, he saw several centurions sprinting toward him. They gathered around as Marcus fell to one knee.

  "Listen to me…do not question or hesitate." Marcus drew a line in the soil with a twig. "Here's our line. I want the second row of cohorts to execute an about-face. The
y will swing out, pivoting on the third, which will anchor on the First. That new line will advance until it is perpendicular to the rest of the formation, almost like two walls coming together. This will leave the ninth positioned—" He stood and pointed to a mound of rocks. "There. Do you understand?"

  They all nodded in unison.

  "Go!"

  They left, bellowing orders as they reached their men. Thanks to years of drilling, the men executed the order with Roman precision—and not a moment too soon. As Marcus reached the newly formed line, the grass stopped moving. There was a moment of surreal silence before the meadow disappeared, replaced by a thousand men covered in long stalks of grass. They glared at the Romans and let out the same spine-chilling scream that had ushered the previous charge. His men could barely unleash their pilums before the two sides collided in a tangled mass. The struggle grew desperate as wave after wave of warriors emerged from the woods beyond the stream. They now faced the bulk of the barbarian army, and Marcus watched in horror as his weakened line buckled under the weight of the onslaught. Knowing that it may crumble at any moment, Marcus ordered the archers into the melee. Despite their lack of armor, the brave souls threw down their bows and joined the fray.

  Marcus moved along the faltering line and soon encountered the largest man he had ever seen, hacking his way through the thinning ranks. A legionnaire tried to bar his path, but the ogre swung his massive blade, catching the soldier just below his jaw. A crimson arc of blood sprayed from the fatal wound, much of it splattering across Marcus' face and chest. Behind the giant, more barbarians advanced to exploit the breach.

  Marcus grabbed the shield of a fallen soldier and rushed the behemoth, who welcomed the attack with a vicious blow. The force drove Marcus to one knee and nearly knocked him unconscious. Marcus raised the shield to protect his head and shoulders and thrust his sword upward. The point struck metal, so he shoved it harder until he felt the blade dig into the soft underside of a trunk-like arm. Marcus could hear the giant's howl above the din of the battle and knew that retribution was near. Another thunderous blast crashed into the shield, the metal and banded leather splintering from the attack. The next blow would rip Marcus asunder.

  Desperate, Marcus hastily covered his head with the remains of his ruined shield. He mustered all his strength and drove forward into the beast. The shield thudded against his waist, eliciting an angry grunt. Marcus reached around the barbarian's leg with the blade of his sword, finding the naked thigh. Though never meant as a weapon for slashing, the edge of his sword was still razor-sharp. He drew it across the giant's hamstring, cutting through flesh and sinew as Marcus pushed forward. The Suebi screamed in agony as the two men crumpled to the ground. The barbarian smashed the hilt of his sword into Marcus's head, knocking off his helmet. The world spun as Marcus stood and staggered away. Blood flowed down his face, blurring his vision. His opponent, writhing in pain, screamed at him.

  Marcus heard several men shout, "The giant is down!"

  A loud cheer erupted from the Romans, but that only encouraged the other barbarians. Marcus raised his sword in time to block another attack, but the force knocked him to the ground. The barbarian raised his sword to strike a death blow when Gaius appeared out of nowhere and ran him through. With great effort, Marcus regained his footing, lumbering forward to rejoin the melee. He lost his balance again and had to lean on his sword to keep from falling. As he stood watching the raging battle, a sharp pain shot through his side.

  He looked down and saw the blade of the stricken giant sliding beneath his armor. The barbarian was sitting on his haunches, trying to stab him again. Marcus summoned his remaining strength and, swinging for the neck, felt the cold steel bite into flesh, then bone. A low gurgle escaped the laceration as the colossal body slumped forward, and the barbarian's head fell to the ground.

  Marcus dropped the sword, trying in vain to reach his wound and stem the flow of blood. His breath grew labored, and he coughed, a coppery trace spilling into his mouth. He slumped to his knees as scores of legionnaires rushed past. Marcus watched the reinforcements plug holes in the line and stem the barbarian attack. More cohorts arrived, and the battle devolved into a desperate struggle. Even with both legions engaged, the outcome was uncertain.

  Marcus watched as the ranks dwindled, the men stubbornly giving way to the onslaught. It looked like they may break at any moment when a commotion drew his attention to the right side of the battle. A cheer rose from the legionnaires as the forgotten Roman cavalry rejoined the fight and rolled up the exposed barbarian flank. Within minutes, the Suebi army was in full flight, and the mounted troopers were cutting down the stragglers. As the centurions rushed to put the men back in formation, Marcus slipped to the ground, his gaze fixed on the gray, sunless sky.

  Moments later, Gaius knelt beside him. He tried to undo the bloody clasp of his armor, but Marcus pushed his hand away. Their eyes met.

  "The men did good," Marcus said.

  "Yes, they did."

  Marcus continued, but it was inaudible.

  Gaius leaned over, and Marcus whispered, "Tell my wife—" He coughed up specks of blood onto Gaius's soiled cheek. "I'm so sorry…" Marcus swallowed back the warm fluid rising in his throat, "sorry I left her."

  "I will," he promised. "I will tell her myself."

  Marcus nodded as a white horse arrived, the rider dismounting. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear the general's voice.

  "Gaius?"

  The old centurion did not reply, but the answer was written on his troubled face. Quintus knelt to the ground.

  "Marcus, your actions have saved the day. I plan on submitting your name to the Senate…"

  Quintus paused when their eyes met, then shifted to the pool of blood gathering around them. As the general spoke of honor rolls and victory marches, Marcus looked beyond him to the sky above. There was a shimmer in the cloud that resembled a bird. He tried to focus on the form as it grew closer, but he could not keep his eyes open. As he slipped into the darkness, he thought of his wife and the fact that he would never see her again.

  CHAPTER ONE

  It is easier to find men who will volunteer to die,

  than to find those who are willing to endure pain with patience.

  —Julius Caesar

  The Roman officer squinted at the setting sun, then looked over at a cluster of priests. The tallest glared at him down a long, crooked nose. The officer shook his head and turned to the centurion standing next to him, a grizzled veteran who spat on the ground and shrugged. Frustrated, the officer glanced back at the prisoners hanging on the crosses; the two thieves were awake but silent. A third—the so-called prophet—appeared to be unconscious.

  "Shit," Marcus said beneath his breath as he walked to the edge of the rocky knoll. The centurion followed close behind, his shadow stretching down the barren hillside.

  "Marcus, only you could fuck up a crucifixion."

  "Shut up, Gaius." Marcus glanced back at the priests, then to the centurion. "What do you think?"

  "Me? I think we should kill them all, even the priests. But that's probably why I'm not an officer."

  "Yeah, probably." Marcus nodded.

  "Here's how I see it: if you ignore their request—and if they had an agreement with Pilate—you know how that will go down. And if they are lying? We can handle that later, our way."

  "You're right, but I still don't like it."

  "What's there to like?" The centurion's scarred face softened. "Once we like this part of the job, well…let's just say things couldn't get much worse."

  "I get it." Marcus cast his gaze toward the prisoners, where it lingered for a moment before he said, "Alright, let's get on with it."

  Marcus crossed the knoll, stopping before the high priest. "I will honor your request, but a Roman soldier will carry it out."

  The priest raised his chin. "That is acceptable."

  Marcus glared at him. This priest didn't act like a conquered man, which was the real
problem with these Jews. They didn't know when they were beaten.

  Turning to the centurion, Marcus motioned to a nearby plank. "That should do."

  Gaius pointed to a soldier who picked up the piece of wood and started toward the closest thief. The prisoner glanced from the soldier to the board, unsure of his intentions, which soon became apparent as the legionnaire planted both feet and swung the board forward, shattering the prisoner's legs with a single blow. The man slumped forward, the weight of his body crushing his lungs and squeezing the life from his limp form.

  Without hesitation, the soldier moved on to the other thief who begged to be spared. The pleas intensified to screams as the soldier struck his blow. This time, the force was enough to break the board as well. As the prisoner slowly suffocated, the soldier looked down at the splintered plank, then at Marcus. The latter glanced around the hillock, but there were no other boards.

  His eyes fell upon a nearby soldier and the weapon he held. "Longinus, your spear."

  The young man handed him the lance. Marcus balanced the hefty weapon and decided that it would suffice. The priest rushed forward, his entourage scrambling to keep pace. Two soldiers stepped in front of him, their spears crossed to block his advance.

  "You must break his legs!" demanded the priest.

  Marcus spun around, scowling. "What did you say?"

  The priest licked his lips and pressed his point. "I said you must break his legs. That was the agreement with Pilate."

  "Are you giving me an order?" Marcus glared at the priest.

  "Well, no—I mean, yes…"

  Marcus closed the gap between them, the spear clenched in his fist. The two soldiers stepped aside as the priest tried to stand his ground. He was no match for the angry Roman, and he shuffled back a few steps, bumping into his companions.

  "Look around, you stinking bastard," Marcus spat. "I'm an officer in the Roman army, and I'd burn this fucking city to the ground before I took a single order from a scraggly little shit like you."